The Mandelbear's Musings

... when cloudy was the weather... I took the YD to school under a pearl-grey sky, through fog that came down to the ground in some places but had lifted to tree-top level in others. In the clear patches the sun slanted down between raggy clouds; in others it turned the fog golden. The trees run the full range from deep-green palms and pines, through bright reds and browns, to a few threadbare early shedders.

It's as close as California gets to autumn. I like it.

Late Friday evening I had the bizarre feeling of turning a corner somewhere in my mind. I was happy all day yesterday, calm and contented today. I realized a couple of hours ago that it felt as though I had stopped being afraid of something.

But I didn't know what it was.

Colleen's condition? I'm a little more optimistic, but I think that still worries me a lot. Money? still a trainwreck. People? I'm still as shy as ever. My own emotions? maybe. The last seemed most likely, an hour or so ago. Certainly I turned away from them for a long time, but I've been trying to get in touch for months now, and succeeding pretty well. Depression? Maybe, but I'm fighting it now, and winning.

People have been telling me for a while now how brave they think I am, exploring the ruins of my shattered self-image, stumbling around in the dark of my mind with the furniture re-arranging itself; what courage it must take to follow this dangerous path into the unknown. (Both metaphors have a lot of resonance with me; I'll follow them up soon in another post downstream.)

But that's probably it.

As of a few days ago the changes I've been going through were scary. Look at the last bit of turning a corner:

A hill, a desert, and mountains in the distance.

Over the last couple of weeks my old self-image has been left in tatters. My old theories about how my mind works -- Asperger's, emotional blindness -- no longer fit the facts. There are old habits to unlearn, feedback loops to break, new ways of interacting with people to learn. I don't even know how to go about doing any of those things, or even what questions to ask to get the right kind of help.

At the same time, my old coping mechanisms are gone. There are still things I'm afraid of, but I can feel the fear now. I'm still lonely, and I don't want to keep avoiding people, but I never learned how to start interacting with them. Colleen always taken care of my social life; I've been to my last four cons without her. It's getting late; I'll expand on this over the weekend perhaps.

The task ahead is daunting, and frustratingly slow. I'm in totally unfamiliar territory, and I don't even know who I am, let alone where.

But somehow, a couple of hours ago, I seem to have accepted that as a challenge instead of turning away and crawling back into my cave. It's the first night of Spring, and it's dark out there. But somehow there's a change in the light again.

Up until now it has been pretty scary. I was confused and lost in unfamiliar territory, and all the old landmarks were gone. The scenery was strange, the path was steep, and I kept getting stones in my shoes. But suddenly I realized that I was enjoying the walk. The scenery is weirdly beautiful, and the water in the river is clear, cool, and refreshing. Now and then I meet people on the same journey. I still don't know where I am or where I'm going, but that doesn't matter now.

When you've lived all your life in a swamp, and suddenly come across a river of clear water that runs through it, it doesn't matter how slowly it's flowing, how scary the rapids may be, or where it's going. It's going away from the swamp, and that's enough.

I rarely take walks at night anymore, but it seemed like the thing to do. Didn't improve my mood much, but at least I got a walk in and I suppose it helped a little. Walked around the Rose Garden; the gates are locked at sunset, so I wasn't able to go in. It probably wouldn't have helped much anyway, though there's always a little comfort to be found in the company of the Royal Amethyst.

The field beside the Middle School where my daughters no longer go was occupied by some sporting event I couldn't identify -- milling around and shouting under glaring lights. It was over by the time I was headed home, with a pair of school busses pulling up to take the winners or losers home.

My left ankle hurts - it hasn't bothered me for weeks. It probably just wants attention.

I want to have a deep conversation about something intricately technical. Or a lighthearted, whimsical conversation with somebody who just wants to burble about their latest source of joy. Or try to cheer up somebody who needs it. But I won't, because I don't want to bother anyone or call anyone up to just dump on them. And wouldn't know who to call anyway.

I want to sit on a couch with somebody sad and beautiful who I'm not in love with, stroking her hair and kissing away her tears, assuring her that everything will be all right.

Instead, I'm going to go water my nose, sing "The Mary Ellen Carter", and do something technological but ultimately mostly brainless like move a soundcard from one machine to another, write a one-page CGI script, or fiddle with Makefiles and HEADER.html pages.

I'll be OK. I am OK. Going to go snuggle my Cat now. Thanks for listening.

Every grief is different, and everyone processes it differently, but the broad outlines of the grieving process are fairly consistent. It doesn't matter whether you're mourning a parent, a dear relative, a child, a friend, a pet, a home, a relationship, a project at work, or something even more abstract: a possibility, a missed opportunity, or your youthful sense of invulnerability. After a certain age, losses become inevitable. It takes not only time but work to get past a loss.

Remember that the objective is acceptance. Not forgetting your loss. Acceptance. In some ways, it's even harder than forgetting.

Acceptance means coming to terms with your loss: making it part of your experience, and putting it in its proper place in your memories. This may involve analyzing what happened so that you can learn from it, in hopes of not making the same mistake a second time. It may involve writing a poem or song, or a letter you will never send. It may involve a very selective kind of forgetting.

It means putting your loss among your treasured memories, carefully, so that you're not thinking of it day by day or letting it get between you and your life, or between you and other people. You'll always remember. There will always be reminders: a chance bit of overheard conversation, a long-out-of-touch friend, a scrap of memory, a color, a flower, a name. You have to make it safe to remember. You must learn to remember the person, not the pain; the lesson, not the loneliness, the good times, not the grieving. You have to get past your loss: make a part of your past, a landmark on your journey.

When most people tell you to "get over it", they mean for you to step over it the way you would step over a mud puddle or a fallen branch: forget it, and move on. (If your friends see you wallowing in the mud, or weeping for months beside a fallen tree-trunk, they can be forgiven for telling you this.) No. Build a bridge of smooth stones across that little stream, and put a pebble in your pocket to remember it by. Take a chainsaw to that tree-trunk, and carve your name on the fresh-cut surface.

It's a healing process; wounds take time to heal. Don't rush the process, or let well-meaning friends rush you, but don't hold back, either. Do the work.

Make an entry in your journal, and tag it so you can find it again. Mark its anniversary, if it's sufficiently important. Write a song, and practice it to the point where you can sing it in public without choking up. Not a miserable song that says how sorry you are for yourself. (OK, write one of those, too; it's part of the process. Burn the manuscript as soon as you can see how awful it is.) Perhaps wistful, perhaps angry, perhaps ironic and funny. Preferably hopeful and maybe even happy. Tell the world you're OK now.

Get to the point where you mean it, when you say that. You will.

The half-moon shines through my kitchen window, wrapped in a gentle hazy glow. I imagine ragged clouds, a high haze of cirrus; it's only that I haven't put on my glasses. Outside, the moon and one bright planet disentangle themselves from the sharp fronds of the dragon-tree; the gray sky is lightening toward blue to Eastward, and a lone bird tentatively warms up its voice for the morning chorus.

Once again I set out to write about something specific and recent; older memories persisted in taking over. Are you trying to tell me something, Amy? Am I being stupid? Maybe. Yes.

The roses beside the driveway fence have started blooming, struggling free of a sea of grass and weeds to preen themselves for anyone who might be watching.

Everything I touch seems to fall apart these days.

I seem to be unable to start things. Work, home, wherever; I putter around the edges of my to-do lists without getting very much done. A house full of unfinished projects mocks me wherever I look. A year into my seventh decade, I've lived in this house half my life. The back yard desperately wants weeding.

There are worse things than growing old together. Thank you, Love.

The birds are quiet now, and sunlight brushes golden highlights onto the curtains.